A bilingual blog containing the perspective of Ng.Uyên (Wyndi) Nicole NN Duong (Nhu-Nguyen)
vung troi tu tuong cua Duong Nhu-Nguyen dien ta bang song ngu Anh-Viet
For the first wave of Vietnamese refugees, after April 1975, the first sign of a normalized life was probably early fall of 1975, when losses settled in, and nostalgia kicked in. Homesickness began. Learned to love a new life, a different landscape.
The first version is the original poem; the second version contains some word changes suggested by my "partner-in-crime."
The Listener, Forest of Memory, and Wall of Oppression enamels on grained paper and digitual infusion (c) UND 2010
ABOUT LE DA XANH, “CRYING GREEN JADE”: A tribute to Thanh Tam Tuyen, South Vietnamese poet and novelist (1936-2006) (c) dnn May 10 2022
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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE ON THANH TAM TUYEN: Thanh Tam Tuyen (acronymed “TTT”) was a refugee from North Vietnam in 1954, right after the Geneva Convention divided Vietnam into two zones: communist North versus non-communist South.
TTT (meaning “Pure Ebony of the Art”) is the pen name of Dzu Van Tam, co-founder of the literary and cultural magazine Sang Tao (“Creativity”) in South Vietnam. (The word “Tuyen” can also mean “a stream,” so the pen name TTT can also mean “Stream from the Pure Heart”).
With this magazine as his “literary child,” TTT started the “free verse” movement in South Vietnam in the 1960s, thereby transforming Vietnamese poetry for the later half of the 20th Century, at least in the South. He also wrote novels and essays, conveying refreshing philosophical themes and a new literary style, which I consider to be ground-breaking for his generation in South Vietnam, during his time as well as thereafter. An eloquent teacher, TTT was well admired by, not only readers of his work and poetry but also generations of his students.
Following the fall of Saigon in 1975, he was sent to a "reeducation camp" by the winners of the Vietnam War. After years of hard labor and imprisonment, TTT immigrated to the U.S. as part of the Reagan-Bush Administration’s “HO” program, and settled in Minnesota, where he lived a quiet, secluded life until his death in 2006.
Among TTT’s most famous “free verse” poems is Le Da Xanh, which I subjectively translated as “Crying Green Jade” (see Appendix 1). Le Da Xanh was set to music by two of South Vietnam’s best known songwriters, Cung Tien and Pham Dinh Chuong (i.e., two separate songs). Both musicians were South Vietnamese refugees who settled in the U.S. after 1975.
In my opinion, the version composed by Cung Tien (“CT”) (see Appendix 2), in particular, bears certain characteristics of, and influence from, the impressionistic and melancholic nature of the early 20th Century’s Romantic (or post-Romantic) composers of the West such as Debussy and Satie, although the tonal nature of Cung Tien’s composition remains intact (contrasting against what was pioneered as atonal trends in the West, but not yet introduced to, pre-1975 South Vietnam).
The following personal essay is based on what Le Da Xanh, the poem and the song, means to me -- that which inspires me to write.
___________________
ABOUT LE DA XANH: MY CRYING GREEN JADE
Both Uta Hagen and Lee Strasberg will agree, and so will Maria Callas who thinks of herself as the servant of music: performing artists, whether in the vocal art or drama, must reach deep down in their soul and find something at the core of their existence to rely on, in order to express. That's the private sphere of the artist's soul, to be given to that which he/she expresses...
Everybody whom I knew from the imperial city of Hue knew that my maternal grandmother was among Hue's most beautiful women.
Grandma wore a jade bracelet all her life. It became greener and greener as she aged.
Memory of childhood in Vietnam often got me back to those nights in Hue, when Grandma held me in her arms, and I felt asleep. Nighttime in Hue could be cold and rainy, but she kept me warm.
In the middle of the night, often I woke up and felt something cold: It was a pleasant cold, smooth and pure, from a dainty object, like a slender, polished cut of stone on which I could lean and rest my cheek.
It was her jade bracelet, of course, pressed against one side of my face. I felt asleep again, her breath over the top of my head filtered down and warmed up her jade bracelet, I was sure. But the cold lingered on, on my cheek, like a cold thread of silk, piercing through the warmth of her breath.
I felt safe in that pleasant cold, my pleasant cold, isolated in all that warmth to anchor me.
*** But then I felt something else.
A wet tear must have smeared onto her jade bracelet. I felt it.
Was the jade crying, or was it Grandma?
Childhood's deep sleep took over always, those nights in Hue.
My little self was not burdened by the weight of thoughts, so I never knew for sure where the tear came from.
́́́***
Her jade bracelet was passed on to me. I wore it on the night I stepped on the C130 cargo plane at Tan Son Nhat airport.
Onto America. Without Grandma. I was forced to forget.
Yet the jade bracelet became a perpetual piece of jewelry. It spoke of who I am and where I came from.
At times I forgot that it was on my wrist.
One day at the University's Recreation Center, I went swimming and was doing the backstroke. The goal was: if I learned music and chose a writing career, I had to learn physical education to achieve balance.
In that one swim, like destiny, I felt so distinctively that my wrist had hit the wall of the swimming pool, as my arm reached over my head to push myself ahead, darting on in all that Clorox-smelling water.
I couldn't hear any sound of breakage in all that water, but I knew something had happened. Instinctively I turned myself into a somersault, dived down without preparation, and looked deep in that water. I saw the bracelet, broken in half. The two halves were falling down, separately like two entities. The two pieces would never find each other again.
And then in all that Clorox-smelling water, I felt Grandma around me. I felt the coldness of the dainty cut of stone pressing onto my cheek. I was safe against that pleasant coldness, upon which I relied. Upon that cut of smooth stone I leaned.
I felt, too, the one tear that wetted my cheek as though it were parting the water to become its own space.
The jade was tearing, or Grandma was tearing.
The jade bracelet that defined me was gone, broken into two halves, falling down and down and down, separated from me forever, into that bottomless Clorox-smelling mass of engulfing water...
America.
***
The swimming instructor said that day I almost drowned.
But somehow before she could jump in to help, I had gotten myself back up. I emerged from that water by myself, and got off the swimming pool.
I can't remember what happened next.
Part of me blamed America for the loss of the bracelet. Part of me blamed myself.
*** In my own American womanhood, I finally learned that Grandma's Vietnamese life (1910-1979) had enough events hidden in her heart to cause her tears. Events of her family. Events of her Hue, and events of the whole country. That which made the jade greener and greener as she aged. That which caused the one tear I felt on that jade circling her wrist, in my dormant Vietnamese childhood.
I came to learn the silence of that one tear. The silence of green jade. The silence of Grandma's heart.
The silence of my loss in America.
***
And that was what the performing artist in me would rely on, in delivering Cung Tiens' Le Da Xanh. To myself.
All I need was the coldness of the cut of stone resting against my cheek, upon which I relied, one night in Hue.
So I don't need the orchestra. Please dismiss it and make my stage simple. Please give me that one tear in the sound of your lonely guitar that speaks to me the silence of Grandma's green jade.
The solitude of the green jade that cried.
The solitude of Grandma's heart that cried.
The solitude of her Hue night that cried.
The solitude of that one tear I felt in the tenderness of Grandma's arms.
The solitude of my stage.
The one tear on stage this night speaks of my loss, and of Grandma's sufferings and all the secrets she bore. What was buried in her heart.
Her Vietnam.
That one tear, unspoken, yet spoken, like the delicate notes -- half tones and whole tones -- to circle into the words they become. Worn upon a Vietnamese woman's wrist, pressed against her forehead, her cheekbone, and then her heart.
Note from Interpreter: “Crying Rocks” are literary motifs and images found in American contemporary literature based on American Indian folklores and heritage.
In contrast, concepts of an age-old rock that holds memory of tales through thousands of years as witness of life events and history were part of the foundation for ancient China’s epic novel/metafiction, Hong Lau Mong (Dream of the Red Chamber).
In Vietnam’s classical heritage, the personification of rocks and waters became literary symbol of the culture. For example: “Da van tro gan cung tue nguyet, nuoc con cau mat voi tang thuong” (Rocks sustained their internals against wear-and-tear from the test of time; water frowned at life’s upheavals that transformed seas into berry fields), quoting Ba Huyen Thanh Quan, Vietnamese poetess, 19th Century.
TTT transposed these ancient concepts into modernity, as birth (or rebirth) of a new (or rejuvenated) literary motif. Unique to his free verses, Le Da Xanh reflects the silenced psychic pain of his generation in absorbing loss, despair, and disillusion.
I chose the phrase “Crying Green Jade” to interpret the title, because it was the only phrase I could think of, which denotes and combines two different semantic possibilities drawn from TTT’s original language:
1) Tears themselves become green jade, i.e. the poet cries and his tears turn into green jade; or
2) Tears are held in the poet’s heart, so the heart cries but tears are withheld within, meaning the palpitating heart is crystalized or solidified into green jade.
Both concepts are metamorphosis that only poeticism can project.
I have also added English words that denote silenced or suppressed pain -- the poet’s tender heart becomes the reservoir of tears, symbolizing the inner strength of endurance.
In contrast to Red as the color of blood, a “heat” symbol standing for Life, TTT spoke of Blue as either sapphire blue or emerald green, a “cool” tone in the visual art, signifying coolness or coldness, denoting solitude or lonely efforts at rejuvenation following losses, sufferings, or bloodshed – the hope of Art.
I chose “jade” as my interpretation because of its cultural meaning -- ornament associated with the Vietnamese female motif and image of femininity.
However, to interpret TTT’s poem as relating only to a couple’s love is to belittle the poet’s philosophical temperament and message about Vietnam’s pre-destined sufferings, found in his written works. Le Da Xanh also reflects the largesse of his soul and thoughts – he spoke of sufferings as fatalism, which I construe to mean the image of a Vietnamese Sisyphus. There, TTT spoke clearly of the larger scope: Le Da Xanh…oi nhung nguoi khoc le loi mot minh -- Tears from those who cry alone… (In his later poems composed during his “re-education camp” imprisonment, TTT described the silent heroism of political prisoners in drawing their strength from a glimpse at springtime outside their cells, during forced labor. This serves as comparison to, and contrast against, Beethoven’s heroism and musical reverberation in deafness -- testament of the human spirit against adversity).
I have also added English words to TTT’s reference to Christianity as the European addition to Vietnamese collective epistemology: concept of the testing, seductive Apple displayed to suffering humankind by a creator-God. This point is significant to me because it shows the poet’s humanity, as well as his enduring belief in free will and love as part of such humanity – the poet is not an atheist like his indoctrinated North Vietnamese Marxist counterpart.
Le Da Xanh is a short and seemingly simple poem, yet packed with images, philosophical ideas, and overwhelming emotions, cast into the best form of Vietnamese abstractionism. This is also my goal, as I use my instinct to put forth the English interpretation in the simplest form of the English language.
I chose this poem because I think it speaks of the cultural and artistic life of South Vietnam as part of early nation-building, for which TTT was a symbol as well as an important witness of history. The musical form has made the poem last, as it is being sung in Vietnam today (see Appendix 2).
I must dedicate this essay and interpretation to my late father, who introduced TTT’s work to me when I was just a child in Vietnam. I believe my father authored the only published literary critique of TTTs famous novel, Dọc Đường (On the Road). Ref. Dương Đức Nhự, “Đọc Dọc Đường cuả̉ Thanh Tâm Tuyển” (“Upon Reading ‘On the Road’ by Thanh Tam Tuyen”) ̣ (1960's). Published in literary journals of South Vietnam, my father’s critique was not archived, and hence, can no longer be located after 1975.
APPENDIX 2: Amateur performance of the song, in Vietnam, 2022
Below in this youtube link is what I consider to be the best performance of the song Le Da Xanh written by Cung Tien, coming out of today’s Vietnam:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VmbM78PwUEU
Cung Tien’s Le Da Xanh, based on TTT’s poem, performed in Qui Nhon, Vietnam, 2022, by Dam Ha and Dieu Nhan.
See comment by Giang Huong Goodwin as a member of the “internet audience.”
Fair use exception to copyright
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The versions appearing in the comments section by Anonymous show the flexibility and richness of the Vietnamese language, as TTT's original poem was altered. These versions should NEVER be circulated independently or claimed authorship as such, without TTT's original text, because such independent circulation can be challenged as "plagiarism," an ethical concern. The intent, character, and integrity of those who made such alternations are directly at issue.
Pham Dinh Chuong's version created in 1970-ish Saigon, on the other hand, was his own creation, based on the idea and symbolism expressed in TTT's original text, a form of idea/symbol inspirational transgression (in Vietnamese: "lay y tho"). Such adaptation "lay y tho" had the approval of the original author and was circulated in South Vietnam and abroad as such.
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FIRST VERSION: Thanh Tam Tuyen's original, Music by Cung Tien 1957 (English translation/interpretation and personal essay 60+ years later, 2022, by Duong Nhu Nguyen; musical performance by Dieu Nhan and Dam Nha, in Vietnam 2022)
SECOND VERSION: inspirational: Nua Hon Thuong Dau, music and lyrics by Pham Dinh Chuong, 1970s
Tập
thơ “Spring
Essence The Poetry of Hồ Xuân Hương”, do Copper Cayon Press phát hành năm 2000, do John Balaban biên
tập và dịch.
Balaban là ai?
John Balaban là tác giả của mười ba cuốn thơ và văn xuôi, trong
đó có bốn tập đã đoạt giải Lamont của The Academy of American Poets, và nhiều
danh dự khác. Năm 2008, ông được Bộ Văn hóa Việt Nam trao tặng huy chương về
công tác dịch thuật và bảo tồn số hóa các văn bản cổ.
Ngoài viết thơ, tiểu thuyết và truyện phi hư cấu, Balaban còn là
một dịch giả thơ Việt Nam và là cựu chủ tịch của Hội Dịch giả Văn học Hoa Kỳ và
cũng là người sáng lập và giám đốc Quỹ Bảo tồn chữ Nôm Việt Nam.
Vắn tắt, đối với người viết thì Balaban ở bậc “thầy của thầy”
trong phạm trù dịch thuật văn học. Trong cuốn, “Spring Essence” ông viết,
“Sick
with sadness, spring passes, spring returns, / A bit of love shared,
just the littlest bit.”[11]
Một đoạn dịch rất hay nhưng vẫn không thể như nguyên bản với
những điệp từ, một nghệ thuật, với mục đích làm tăng cảm xúc của câu thơ (“con
con” ) hay như một cách chơi chữ (“lại lại”, returns again)
“Ngán
nỗi xuân đi xuân lại lại, / Mảnh tình san sẻ tí con con.”[12]
Ở một bài khác Balaban viết,
“Kind
sir, if you love me, pierce me with your stick. / Caress me and sap
will slicken your hand.”[13]
Vẫn hay nhưng không thấm như
“Quân
tử có yêu thì đóng cọc, / Xin đừng mân mó, nhựa ra tay.”[14]
TÔI BIẾT ÔNG BALABAN LÀ AI, COI NHƯ ĐỒ̉NG NGHIỆP.
XIN QUÝ VỊ ĐỌC PHẦN DỊCH CUẢ TÔI:
“Ngán nỗi xuân đi xuân lại lại, / Mảnh tình san sẻ tí con con.”
Câu này hay nhờ những chữ nhiều nghĩa được lập đi lập lại, vì thế khi viết thành tiếng Anh, cũng nên dùng thuật ngữ nhiều nghiã, lập đi lập lại như vậy:
Boredom strikes, with foregone spring, bygone, Fed up with spring time, spring is now back, oh, back-to-back A bit of love shared, a little, of such tiny bit DNN(c) 4/3/2022
“Quân tử có yêu thì đóng cọc, / Xin đừng mân mó, nhựa ra tay.”
Bản dịch cần đủ nghĩa nhưng phải thanh tao và phải có âm vần điệu ̣rhyme and musicality:
Hold me in place with your spear as proof of your love: far too sincere Don’t just touch and mold, Beware of the sap, a simple handful DNN(c)4/3/2022
Cái đẹp cuả bài thơ Hoà̉ng Cầm. Tuyệt bích cuả ngôn ngữ VN. Cám ơn em Thuý Nga ở VN. Truoc day em co dang bai cua Thai Can. Tài năng cuả Hoàng Cầm với bài thơ này bất kể sông Gianh hay là sông Bến Hải.
Dưới đây, dĩ nhiên tôi không nói đến trí thức VN đã phải chọn con ̣đường bứt phá qua thi ca...Tôi cũng không hẹp hòi để phê phán sự chọn lựa cuả họ.
Cái đẹp cuả bài thơ Hoàng Cầm chính là lý do mà tôi phải công khai lên án những kẻ bất tài vô tướng, vô lễ với di sản thi ca của văn học sử Việt, lại tự cho mình có quyền đi ra trước quà̀n chúng Viet để̉ lải nhải xấc xược về v/d thi ca, tự nhận mình là chuyên gia thi ca, trong khi khong hieu gi ca ve âm vần điệu -- tính chật đặc thù cuả mấy trăm năm tuyệt bích cuả thơ Nôm, tiếng Việt, là ngôn ngữ có dấu, tonal, phonetics.
Lũ man rợ này không biết học hỏi, không biết khiêm nhưở̀ng, lại dám hô hào dưới chiêu bài thơ mới với thơ cũ, làm tôi nghĩ đến câu cuả Hồ Xuân Hương: "khéo ngẩn ngơ thay lũ trọc đầu..." Một lũ không có tóc mà dám vỗ ngực cho mình là expert về mái tóc mây cuà cô Kiều, cuả nàng chinh phụ, cuả cung nữ....
Muốn làm được môt bài tho xuoi tiếng Việt cần phải càm nhận được âm vần điệu, nhạc tính trong ngôn ngữ Việt, và phải hiểu thế nào là hình ảnh và cảm giác trong thi ca (tieu chuan thi ca cua the gioi...)
Muốn làm đươc một bài thơ văn xuôi như Baudelaire trong Spleen of Paris, trước hết phải biết nhận thức thế nào là thi ca. Nhậ́t là nếu làm bằng tiếng Việt là tiếng mẹ đẻ cuả lũ hỗn lạ́o đó. Tôi cho rằng cái lũ bá vơ này không bao giờ làm nổi một bài như Hoảng Cầm cho nên chúng nó mới phải đi mượn thể chế cuả thế kỷ hai mươi Baudelaire...rồi vỗ ngực cho mình đủ khả năng để bình luận về thi ca "văn xuôi." Tôi không hiểu được tai sao lai có những đoàn thể tập thể tạo cơ hội cho chúng nó là̉m cái trò này.
Muốn biết chúng nó có làm nổi "thi ca" hay không thì cứ phát cho mỗi đứa một cây bút và tờ giậ́y cho chúng nó một ngày (̣giống như ngày xưa nữ sinh VNCH đi thi văn chương) xem chúng nó viết nổi cái gì, có đưá nào dám đem "sáng tác" cuả chúng nó ra để bên cạnh lụ́c bát cuả ND, song thất lục bát cuả DTD, hay bài thơ dưới đây cuà̉ Hoàng Cầm? Hay lả chúng nó viết "nhật ký" loại lang bang không đầu không đuôi rồi gọi đó là "thơ mới' thơ văn xuôi...bắt chước Tay Phuong mà không xong? Có dám đem "nhật kỵ́ lang bang" bắt chước không nên nết cuả chúng nó ra để bên cạnh đoản văn ngắn cuả Baudelaire hay không?
Và dĩ nhiên lại có những đưá đem thi ca ra làm chính trị đẫm máu...
